The other day, Smitty said he was addicted to a brand of popcorn we get at Wal-Mart. I can't remember the name, it's in a red bag and in the chips aisle, but it is quite spectacular for a bagged treat. They have white cheddar (my personal favorite), movie theater butter, cinnamon (BLECH), and buffalo-flavored, which is so spicy, it makes my throat hurt. Nonetheless, I thought for a bit about the word "addiction."
It posed the question, "what am I addicted to?" Anyone have a spare Trapper Keeper? Seriously and honestly, I'm addicted to caffeine, nicotine, lip balm, Facebook, and having the last word. Yes, I drink alcohol, and I've had my share of unfavorable alcohol-fueled moments, but if someone said if I took another drink, I could die, I'd have no problem stopping that. As a child of co-dependency, what I have is a problem with self-control and overindulgence. Luckily, I've had a couple of wake-up calls and a monumentally supportive husband that keeps me from going cuckoo cachoo, and destructive addiction is not a problem for me anymore...unless you count a delicious food addiction and an aversion to exercise..but I don't, so shut up.
As the child of an alcoholic father, (I love and miss him dearly, but he was) I've had an up-close relationship with addiction and co-dependency, and unfortunately, that cycle continues. Sometimes, you don't notice these things until you have a little distance, or until you get some free, well-needed therapy, which I am unashamed to admit I've had.
Besides familiar experience with this, I have had friends I dearly love and have more in common and a more loving relationship with than members of my family struggle with addiction to the point of near death. And I've cut myself off from those people until they got help and demonstrated an actual change in their lives. Then, I let them back into my life. And thank God I made that decision to let them get help without my enabling, and thank God, they got the help they needed, and if they need a vital organ, now, J.C. or B.T.W., bail money, or a sympathetic ear, I am always available to them. Those people are among my best friends and people that I love unconditionally because they had inner strength to ask for and receive help.
However, there's always the flip side and when it comes to family, complication ensues. Bottom line, a family member has stolen from my parents, my sister, and myself most recently, and while I am perfectly capable of forgiveness, I also have the logical fortitude to recognize that, for myself and the health of my familial unit (Smitty + me = Team Smith), I cannot continue to entertain lies, denial, and multiple hurts at the hand of this person. They need help, a team of white-coated people, possibly, and until they agree to that, they don't exist to me. In theory, it makes me sound cold-hearted, maybe, but in the real world, where things are not lollipops and butterflies, it's how I choose to deal with this situation.
More than one person has told me recently that I "have issues" or "am a downer," and I'm really actually surprised by this characterization. Considering some things I've been through recently, I really do try to stay positive. My sense of humor is always intact. If you don't get it, maybe you're a moron, I dunno...but on the whole, I really do try to stay positive in the face of the black clouds that occasionally invade my monkey DJ's and my happy place. I've been sarcastic and outspoken since I was 9 years old. Don't confuse sass with negativity. Some thoughts? Do you think I'm negative?
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Things you can tell just by looking at her
Christmas has come and gone. It turns out I didn't need to be committed to an asylum for missing my dad or for other sins of the family that tend to descend during the holidays. Cymbalta, you are worth every penny. "Jingle bells, pills are swell, cheaper than a shrink..."...you get the idea.
I've decided the key to enjoyment in life is to set your expectations low. While this sounds pessimistic, it's actually an optimistic approach, or it's about as optimistic as I get. That way, I can always be delighted with the outcome. For instance, I chose to laugh my way through Christmas. As aforementioned, Cymbalta helps us (the royal me) find the humor in the dreaded, but I did really find things funny this Christmas.
Overheard at family gatherings:
1. "Ever since I had my fall, my equilibrium has been off....whatever that is." -- my grandmother, who fell about two months ago at McDonald's due to the fact their toilet seat wasn't properly fastened. She cracked her tailbone, the second time she's actually done this, and have I mentioned, she's 90. The woman is an institution.
2. "But, we can just open presents now. Dad won't care." -- my nephew Drew, dying from the fact he had to wait until his dad got off work before we could open presents. Children have a way of making everything sound perfectly logical.
3. "What size hat does Smitty wear?" -- my mom, who could not be convinced that baseball hats are pretty much one size fits all. I tried, in vain, to explain they're adjustable, they come in one size, and that she was making me question the validity of her master's degree. She bought Smitty a hat, which.......was one size fits all. This afforded an opportunity to do my "I was right, I was ri---iiight" chant while preparing Christmas dinner.
4. "You're going down, punk!" -- my nephew Matthew, who is a huge fan of superheroes and apparently has been watching "Die Hard" movies in his spare time.
5. "You've got my balls, I cannot see..." -- Smitty, singing to the first part of "Crash" by Dave Matthews Band in the car on the way to Mississippi. It's safe to say that diet Coke neared the point of shooting out my nose, but I resisted. That is one funny tall man.
6. "Do you just look for ways to look more retarded?" -- my brother-in-law Gib, because I got a wool hat with ear flaps that people might think such a dignified person as myself wouldn't wear in public. They would be wrong. It's too cold for me to care about how stupid I look. It was snowing on Christmas Day in Mississippi, a sure sign the end is near...I was cold. Slap my ass and call me Canadian, they know what they're doing when it comes to outerwear.
I heard the most beautiful song last week sung by Kate McGarrigle, mother of Rufus Wainwright, who passed away last year. It was called "I Eat Dinner," and while it is a fairly sad song, it is absolutely heartbreakingly beautiful. I'm getting that CD as soon as I can locate it. A sampling:
"Never thought that I'd end up like this
I who loved the light
Never thought I'd be without a kiss
No one to turn off the light
Turn off the light"
I've decided the key to enjoyment in life is to set your expectations low. While this sounds pessimistic, it's actually an optimistic approach, or it's about as optimistic as I get. That way, I can always be delighted with the outcome. For instance, I chose to laugh my way through Christmas. As aforementioned, Cymbalta helps us (the royal me) find the humor in the dreaded, but I did really find things funny this Christmas.
Overheard at family gatherings:
1. "Ever since I had my fall, my equilibrium has been off....whatever that is." -- my grandmother, who fell about two months ago at McDonald's due to the fact their toilet seat wasn't properly fastened. She cracked her tailbone, the second time she's actually done this, and have I mentioned, she's 90. The woman is an institution.
2. "But, we can just open presents now. Dad won't care." -- my nephew Drew, dying from the fact he had to wait until his dad got off work before we could open presents. Children have a way of making everything sound perfectly logical.
3. "What size hat does Smitty wear?" -- my mom, who could not be convinced that baseball hats are pretty much one size fits all. I tried, in vain, to explain they're adjustable, they come in one size, and that she was making me question the validity of her master's degree. She bought Smitty a hat, which.......was one size fits all. This afforded an opportunity to do my "I was right, I was ri---iiight" chant while preparing Christmas dinner.
4. "You're going down, punk!" -- my nephew Matthew, who is a huge fan of superheroes and apparently has been watching "Die Hard" movies in his spare time.
5. "You've got my balls, I cannot see..." -- Smitty, singing to the first part of "Crash" by Dave Matthews Band in the car on the way to Mississippi. It's safe to say that diet Coke neared the point of shooting out my nose, but I resisted. That is one funny tall man.
6. "Do you just look for ways to look more retarded?" -- my brother-in-law Gib, because I got a wool hat with ear flaps that people might think such a dignified person as myself wouldn't wear in public. They would be wrong. It's too cold for me to care about how stupid I look. It was snowing on Christmas Day in Mississippi, a sure sign the end is near...I was cold. Slap my ass and call me Canadian, they know what they're doing when it comes to outerwear.
I heard the most beautiful song last week sung by Kate McGarrigle, mother of Rufus Wainwright, who passed away last year. It was called "I Eat Dinner," and while it is a fairly sad song, it is absolutely heartbreakingly beautiful. I'm getting that CD as soon as I can locate it. A sampling:
"Never thought that I'd end up like this
I who loved the light
Never thought I'd be without a kiss
No one to turn off the light
Turn off the light"
Sunday, December 19, 2010
It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags.
I will readily admit, I've been a bit of a jackass about Christmas this year. I didn't decorate anything, I bought all of my presents online so I wouldn't have to deal with any of the people in stores, and I've decided not to send Christmas cards. It's December 19, and I haven't wrapped anything. This is why I need people, like chefs and maids and personal valets.
Then I realized, this is the first Christmas without my dad, and I hate it. He's the one that first made me love the original "Grinch," and he actually sang the song. He used to put bells outside our windows to let us know Santa had been there. When we got a basketball goal, he wrote a letter from Santa, attached it to the basketball inside, with instructions of where to go to find the basketball goal. He put together trampolines, laid out Barbie bolls, and wrote letters from Santa next to eaten cookies.
When we opened gifts, he would sit on the hearth in a Mississippi State sweatshirt I bought him, drinking in the fact that all of his "chicks" were at home. All he wanted was to sit and enjoy family time, eating, and watching his favorite movies (George C. Scott's "A Christmas Carol"). I don't think I was prepared for how badly I would miss him this Christmas. For the past 4 years, I've bought him Mississippi State gear, and he was wearing the last hat I gave him when he died.
I really swear I'm not trying to depress anyone, I'm okay. I'm just having trouble dealing with change, and I'm typing through tears right now, but I spent the best day with Smitty today. I am so lucky to have someone like him to understand my crazy mood swings and know before I do that I miss my father and need to cry sometimes, and sometimes I need to have wine and sushi and talk about monkeys or the children's book I want to write about the farm where the animals wear pants..(oh, it's happening)
And as a result of my very pleasant day with my husband, I've begun to feel the vague sensation of what could be classified as Christmas spirit. I've felt very content today and at peace, and I have to think that my dad is probably pissed that I'm not feeling very elf-ish yet, and he sent me some heavenly pixie dust or whatever. I've had this sensation for weeks that he's with me, in the form of random Shakespeare quotes popping up, movies that he and I have specifically discussed being on TV, too many instances of coincidences that really aren't coincidences.
To the friends that I know that have lost parents in recent years, and the ones that I don't know, we're in this thing together. Thank God for our memories that sustain us during this time. And we are making new ones. They're just as good, they're just different.
“It's surprising how much of memory is built around things unnoticed at the time” -- Barbara Kingsolver
Then I realized, this is the first Christmas without my dad, and I hate it. He's the one that first made me love the original "Grinch," and he actually sang the song. He used to put bells outside our windows to let us know Santa had been there. When we got a basketball goal, he wrote a letter from Santa, attached it to the basketball inside, with instructions of where to go to find the basketball goal. He put together trampolines, laid out Barbie bolls, and wrote letters from Santa next to eaten cookies.
When we opened gifts, he would sit on the hearth in a Mississippi State sweatshirt I bought him, drinking in the fact that all of his "chicks" were at home. All he wanted was to sit and enjoy family time, eating, and watching his favorite movies (George C. Scott's "A Christmas Carol"). I don't think I was prepared for how badly I would miss him this Christmas. For the past 4 years, I've bought him Mississippi State gear, and he was wearing the last hat I gave him when he died.
I really swear I'm not trying to depress anyone, I'm okay. I'm just having trouble dealing with change, and I'm typing through tears right now, but I spent the best day with Smitty today. I am so lucky to have someone like him to understand my crazy mood swings and know before I do that I miss my father and need to cry sometimes, and sometimes I need to have wine and sushi and talk about monkeys or the children's book I want to write about the farm where the animals wear pants..(oh, it's happening)
And as a result of my very pleasant day with my husband, I've begun to feel the vague sensation of what could be classified as Christmas spirit. I've felt very content today and at peace, and I have to think that my dad is probably pissed that I'm not feeling very elf-ish yet, and he sent me some heavenly pixie dust or whatever. I've had this sensation for weeks that he's with me, in the form of random Shakespeare quotes popping up, movies that he and I have specifically discussed being on TV, too many instances of coincidences that really aren't coincidences.
To the friends that I know that have lost parents in recent years, and the ones that I don't know, we're in this thing together. Thank God for our memories that sustain us during this time. And we are making new ones. They're just as good, they're just different.
“It's surprising how much of memory is built around things unnoticed at the time” -- Barbara Kingsolver
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Riding through the desert on a blog with no name
Taylor on the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills has entirely too much top lip. I understand the theory of plastic surgery, but there has to be some point where maybe your friends tell you, "Hey, your lips overlap your chin when you're not using them," stop the implants. Also, Camille Grammar is/was/and will always be a trophy wife...that's it. She was a porn star, and she now looks like a porn star who married well. That's what you get for not building actual skills and having FOUR nannies.
I digress, or maybe not, this is not a structured post, but earlier today, I reminisced about my days on the pageant circuit. And by pageant circuit, I mean through the ages of 7 and 10, my mom insisted on cutting my hair short. It happened initially as a result of a girl in 1st grade cutting a big chunk of my hair to the point we had to cut it. But she KEPT cutting it. In addition, my grandmother gave me Ogilvie home perms that burned my eyes and scalp and gave me processed, blondish brown Michael Jackson hair. It was decided, because I would randomly break into song, (still do) that I should be in talent competitions. Oh, the shame. I was so incredibly awkward at that age, and while I could probably sing as well as any 7-year-old, my voice teacher explained, "There is a high Emily and a low Emily, I want to hear the high Emily." Well, the issue with that is that there is not, nor will there ever be, a high Emily.
I'm not kidding. Like 5 years ago, I went to my friend Jeff's birthday party and with my now dead-to-me Australian pal, I sang "Welcome to the Jungle," and his falsetto was way better than mine. I mean, he was a bit of a dandy, but seriously, mine sounded like when Ana Gasteyer and Will Ferrell used to do their version of the middle school choral teachers. It was very proper, like if an opera singer tried to sing Metallica.
I feel as though in youth, I did a lot of things I really didn't want to do. I think about these things as I think about raising kids and what I want them to participate in and how I don't want to force them into joining teams and clubs they don't want to. I was a Brownie for about 2 weeks (a pre-Girl Scout), but I didn't like the uniform, and I didn't care for people telling me what to do, so I quit. Then, I played basketball in middle school, which I wasn't crazy about, but I did it because all my friends were playing. I could shoot pretty well, but the running and blocking and stuff eluded me a bit. Plus, all of the middle school games were at like, 9 in the morning, 30 minutes away...no, thank you.
I also played softball, which, for a brief period, I was quite the little superstar. I could hit okay, at least to where I could get on base, I was an awesome catcher and fielder, and I ran really fast. Then, I started having this weird thing where I would be running and my left knee would just pop out of place, which would make me collapse in a little heap wherever I was. I had to be carried off the field at least twice, and in Macon, our softball games were pretty much the only game in town.
So, my coach became a psycho. I played tennis, which I loved, and he gave me an ultimatum that I would a. have to choose between tennis and softball and b. if I chose softball, I'd have to have surgery or he wouldn't play me. Yah, that was a real tough decision. I believe I went to the state tennis finals that year. Jackass...sports should be fun for children, period. If you are the Nick Saban of junior high softball, I'm sorry that you must've failed at many things, but don't take it out on teenage girls.
In conclusion, I love being married more than anything, honestly, I do. If Smitty and I were locked in a closet, we could make each other laugh, and I'm sorry, but if you can't make your significant other laugh, you are not going to make it. However, there are those days that I am in excellent spirits, and he is the complete opposite...not because of me, but those other folks are not around. I am not a fan of misplaced anger. I have dealt with it quite a bit, having been the product of a co-dependent household. The good news is, I know when it's displaced anger and when it's an actual thing, so rather than exercise my natural instinct to yell back "What do you want from me?:" I just kind of acquiesce and let the situation pass.
"Don't marry the person you think you can live with; marry only the individual you think you can't live without. Dr. James C. Dobson
I digress, or maybe not, this is not a structured post, but earlier today, I reminisced about my days on the pageant circuit. And by pageant circuit, I mean through the ages of 7 and 10, my mom insisted on cutting my hair short. It happened initially as a result of a girl in 1st grade cutting a big chunk of my hair to the point we had to cut it. But she KEPT cutting it. In addition, my grandmother gave me Ogilvie home perms that burned my eyes and scalp and gave me processed, blondish brown Michael Jackson hair. It was decided, because I would randomly break into song, (still do) that I should be in talent competitions. Oh, the shame. I was so incredibly awkward at that age, and while I could probably sing as well as any 7-year-old, my voice teacher explained, "There is a high Emily and a low Emily, I want to hear the high Emily." Well, the issue with that is that there is not, nor will there ever be, a high Emily.
I'm not kidding. Like 5 years ago, I went to my friend Jeff's birthday party and with my now dead-to-me Australian pal, I sang "Welcome to the Jungle," and his falsetto was way better than mine. I mean, he was a bit of a dandy, but seriously, mine sounded like when Ana Gasteyer and Will Ferrell used to do their version of the middle school choral teachers. It was very proper, like if an opera singer tried to sing Metallica.
I feel as though in youth, I did a lot of things I really didn't want to do. I think about these things as I think about raising kids and what I want them to participate in and how I don't want to force them into joining teams and clubs they don't want to. I was a Brownie for about 2 weeks (a pre-Girl Scout), but I didn't like the uniform, and I didn't care for people telling me what to do, so I quit. Then, I played basketball in middle school, which I wasn't crazy about, but I did it because all my friends were playing. I could shoot pretty well, but the running and blocking and stuff eluded me a bit. Plus, all of the middle school games were at like, 9 in the morning, 30 minutes away...no, thank you.
I also played softball, which, for a brief period, I was quite the little superstar. I could hit okay, at least to where I could get on base, I was an awesome catcher and fielder, and I ran really fast. Then, I started having this weird thing where I would be running and my left knee would just pop out of place, which would make me collapse in a little heap wherever I was. I had to be carried off the field at least twice, and in Macon, our softball games were pretty much the only game in town.
So, my coach became a psycho. I played tennis, which I loved, and he gave me an ultimatum that I would a. have to choose between tennis and softball and b. if I chose softball, I'd have to have surgery or he wouldn't play me. Yah, that was a real tough decision. I believe I went to the state tennis finals that year. Jackass...sports should be fun for children, period. If you are the Nick Saban of junior high softball, I'm sorry that you must've failed at many things, but don't take it out on teenage girls.
In conclusion, I love being married more than anything, honestly, I do. If Smitty and I were locked in a closet, we could make each other laugh, and I'm sorry, but if you can't make your significant other laugh, you are not going to make it. However, there are those days that I am in excellent spirits, and he is the complete opposite...not because of me, but those other folks are not around. I am not a fan of misplaced anger. I have dealt with it quite a bit, having been the product of a co-dependent household. The good news is, I know when it's displaced anger and when it's an actual thing, so rather than exercise my natural instinct to yell back "What do you want from me?:" I just kind of acquiesce and let the situation pass.
"Don't marry the person you think you can live with; marry only the individual you think you can't live without. Dr. James C. Dobson
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Oh, the things I can't do
I am not good at everything. That pained me a little to type. I kid; I'm fully aware that I have my many shortcomings, and I find it helpful to acknowledge those things every now and again. It keeps me in check and enables Smitty to live with me without killing me in my sleep. I wanted to try to use the word "agog" in this blog somehow, because "egg nog" popped into my head earlier, which, by the way, is disgusting. There is no amount of rum on earth that would make it palatable. It tastes like what I imagine fingernail polish remover to taste like, only with milk added. I worked at a really weird place one time where they were freaking psychos about egg nog. They thought I was the strange one for not drinking it, and they had flavors I didn't know existed. I mean, pickle-flavored egg nog is really just going too far.
I digress; Smitty just helpfully started the ball rolling by saying these are things at which I do not excel: standing up without falling over, walking without falling over, operating appliances, and knowing when to shut my mouth.
The first two are really basically the same thing, and I'm not sure when coordination left me. I took tap, ballet, and gymnastics for about 7 years when I was younger, I played tennis..very well, I might add, and was generally very good about not falling over or tripping. Yet now, I can fall into a hole in the yard and tear important parts of my leg, trip over the carpet, walk into the door jamb, trip over a handicapped ramp, breaking my shoe and my ankle, and the list goes on and on, and I have no good reason for it. But I do have a number of bruises, a sassy boot, and an ankle brace.
This charge of not being able to operate appliances. I can only assume he's referring to how once I put a plastic Pyrex lid in the oven, and it caught on fire. I swear I read "oven safe," but once it melted, I couldn't prove my point. Also, I have a tendency to hit random buttons on the remote controls that cause weird things to happen to the TV, like no sound, but the receiver is on, or changing to Russian closed captioning. It's a gift.
Not knowing when to shut my mouth -- hmmm. He suggested that the United States use me as a torture device on North Korea to force them into a surrender/treaty situation. I believe he was likening my constant chatter to what they did to Noriega by blasting him out of his hide-out with heavy metal music. I would imagine it would go something like this: "Hi, Mr. Jong-Il, do you know that you're causing a lot of panic, and I'm sure you don't mean any real harm. Where did you get those sunglasses? I like them. I don't buy expensive sunglasses because I lose them. Wal-Mart sells the ones I buy for $7, so I buy two pairs, except I keep one pair with me and one with Smitty, so I have spares. Smitty's my husband; he's really tall, but you shouldn't feel bad for being short. I'm short, and you can fit into little spaces no one else can. Have you experienced that? Do you like Barack Obama? I do; I worked for John Kerry, but I didn't really like him. Have you met him? He's the most boring man on the face of the earth, and he really does look like a horse..." Just a sampling...I could actually solve this thing in 2 days, tops. Give me coffee, pixie stix, and Adapex...I'll talk for 12 hours without stopping.
So, those are Smitty's contributions, and I have a few of my own:
1. Admitting I'm wrong -- I will do it, but it can take days, weeks, even months for me to actually utter, "I was wrong." I think I view it as a weakness, plus I am seriously so stubborn, it's ridiculous..(thanks, Daddy). I will acknowledge to myself that I'm wrong, but I will justify it all day long how, in fact, I was not wrong. It might devolve into, "No, stupid head, you're wrong," or "Your mama," but if you've ever gotten an "I was wrong" out of me...kudos.
2. Keeping cars clean -- I'm actually doing somewhat well with my little Chevrolet Aveo made from plastic bottles. Once I got 3 weeks of newspapers out of there, it was easy. Now, I just have a ton of books for which we have no room and my sad CDs because I keep leaving my iPod in Smitty's truck, and I suspect he's trying to teach me a lesson by not just giving it to me...stupid lesson
3. Anything requiring analysis or math -- See, here's my thing, I met some brilliant engineering and computer science students at UAH when I went there, but they couldn't string a sentence together or interact all that well with, y'know, people. So, while, yes, those people could probably buy and sell me 10 times over today, I don't care. I'm glad I'm good with people and words and adapting to new situations. You can have your lines of code and programming and designing bridges and stuff; I'll have sex, thank you very much.
4. Most things domestic -- I remember when Smitty and I had our wedding shower at his church, and we got mostly cooking accessories. With almost every gift, I was like "What is this?" until finally the ladies at the church suggested that Smitty do most of the cooking because they seemed genuinely afraid of the prospect of my operating kitchen appliances.
I'm sort of like a boy when it comes to cleaning. As long as stuff isn't blatantly dirty, and it doesn't smell, I don't really see the need to clean it. I don't like dust, and I try to push that into crevices that we can't see..therefore, it doesn't exist. Vacuuming makes me sweat, and every time I clean the bathroom, I get dizzy and high from the fumes. This is why I need "people." Do you know how nice I would be to a housekeeper? OMG, she would be like Alice from the "Brady Bunch," a part of the family. Once the book royalties start rolling in, we're getting a nice, friendly housekeeper.
That is but a mere dusting of my lesser qualities, but I already feel better, like when I helped buy a child for Christmas...or rent them or whatever with a shoebox...good times.
I digress; Smitty just helpfully started the ball rolling by saying these are things at which I do not excel: standing up without falling over, walking without falling over, operating appliances, and knowing when to shut my mouth.
The first two are really basically the same thing, and I'm not sure when coordination left me. I took tap, ballet, and gymnastics for about 7 years when I was younger, I played tennis..very well, I might add, and was generally very good about not falling over or tripping. Yet now, I can fall into a hole in the yard and tear important parts of my leg, trip over the carpet, walk into the door jamb, trip over a handicapped ramp, breaking my shoe and my ankle, and the list goes on and on, and I have no good reason for it. But I do have a number of bruises, a sassy boot, and an ankle brace.
This charge of not being able to operate appliances. I can only assume he's referring to how once I put a plastic Pyrex lid in the oven, and it caught on fire. I swear I read "oven safe," but once it melted, I couldn't prove my point. Also, I have a tendency to hit random buttons on the remote controls that cause weird things to happen to the TV, like no sound, but the receiver is on, or changing to Russian closed captioning. It's a gift.
Not knowing when to shut my mouth -- hmmm. He suggested that the United States use me as a torture device on North Korea to force them into a surrender/treaty situation. I believe he was likening my constant chatter to what they did to Noriega by blasting him out of his hide-out with heavy metal music. I would imagine it would go something like this: "Hi, Mr. Jong-Il, do you know that you're causing a lot of panic, and I'm sure you don't mean any real harm. Where did you get those sunglasses? I like them. I don't buy expensive sunglasses because I lose them. Wal-Mart sells the ones I buy for $7, so I buy two pairs, except I keep one pair with me and one with Smitty, so I have spares. Smitty's my husband; he's really tall, but you shouldn't feel bad for being short. I'm short, and you can fit into little spaces no one else can. Have you experienced that? Do you like Barack Obama? I do; I worked for John Kerry, but I didn't really like him. Have you met him? He's the most boring man on the face of the earth, and he really does look like a horse..." Just a sampling...I could actually solve this thing in 2 days, tops. Give me coffee, pixie stix, and Adapex...I'll talk for 12 hours without stopping.
So, those are Smitty's contributions, and I have a few of my own:
1. Admitting I'm wrong -- I will do it, but it can take days, weeks, even months for me to actually utter, "I was wrong." I think I view it as a weakness, plus I am seriously so stubborn, it's ridiculous..(thanks, Daddy). I will acknowledge to myself that I'm wrong, but I will justify it all day long how, in fact, I was not wrong. It might devolve into, "No, stupid head, you're wrong," or "Your mama," but if you've ever gotten an "I was wrong" out of me...kudos.
2. Keeping cars clean -- I'm actually doing somewhat well with my little Chevrolet Aveo made from plastic bottles. Once I got 3 weeks of newspapers out of there, it was easy. Now, I just have a ton of books for which we have no room and my sad CDs because I keep leaving my iPod in Smitty's truck, and I suspect he's trying to teach me a lesson by not just giving it to me...stupid lesson
3. Anything requiring analysis or math -- See, here's my thing, I met some brilliant engineering and computer science students at UAH when I went there, but they couldn't string a sentence together or interact all that well with, y'know, people. So, while, yes, those people could probably buy and sell me 10 times over today, I don't care. I'm glad I'm good with people and words and adapting to new situations. You can have your lines of code and programming and designing bridges and stuff; I'll have sex, thank you very much.
4. Most things domestic -- I remember when Smitty and I had our wedding shower at his church, and we got mostly cooking accessories. With almost every gift, I was like "What is this?" until finally the ladies at the church suggested that Smitty do most of the cooking because they seemed genuinely afraid of the prospect of my operating kitchen appliances.
I'm sort of like a boy when it comes to cleaning. As long as stuff isn't blatantly dirty, and it doesn't smell, I don't really see the need to clean it. I don't like dust, and I try to push that into crevices that we can't see..therefore, it doesn't exist. Vacuuming makes me sweat, and every time I clean the bathroom, I get dizzy and high from the fumes. This is why I need "people." Do you know how nice I would be to a housekeeper? OMG, she would be like Alice from the "Brady Bunch," a part of the family. Once the book royalties start rolling in, we're getting a nice, friendly housekeeper.
That is but a mere dusting of my lesser qualities, but I already feel better, like when I helped buy a child for Christmas...or rent them or whatever with a shoebox...good times.
Sunday, December 05, 2010
Wish I had a river I could skate away on....
So, here's the thing, at least for me, about grief. It hangs out inside you, perhaps talking to your internal organs, maybe they're playing poker and shooting craps, and then, like a petulant, nap-deprived toddler, it gets cranky and explodes in the middle of a conversation, and until you realize it, you think you're a crazy person.
I miss my dad. This is not a new emotion, but I didn't fully comprehend the idea of his not being present at Christmas until about a week ago. And what's really funny, that I tried to bring to mind last night when I finally allowed myself to cry and release this unknown tension that had no name, is that my dad really didn't like Christmas that much. He liked all of us being home, and he was a big fan of Jesus, but the forced gift-giving was a particular burr in his side: yet, another reason, why he and I were on the same level in terms of holidays.
If I had my way, we'd give each other presents throughout the year. Meaning, if I see a present that reminds me of you, I would like to buy it and send it to you rather than waiting for a date where we all go retail-crazy. Plus, I would like to be able to buy groceries at Wal-Mart in the month of December without having to be armed. We went there today for a FEW items and both of us nearly got taken out by old ladies and their shopping carts, plus befuddled shoppers looking for decorations and such. I hate you, Wal-Mart, but you make things that we enjoy. Damn you, white devils.
That grocery thing really had nothing to do with my dad, but it's yet another reason that this Christmas is a bit harder than I expected. It's like I told Smitty yesterday, "It is incredibly unfair that I can't call my dad and tell him a. that the George C. Scott version of "A Christmas Carol" is everywhere, and it's your favorite and mine, too, except for "Scrooged," and b. even though we draw names for gifts in my family, for the last three years, I had bought him Mississippi State gear, which he loved, and in fact, I believe was wearing part of when he died. Those things, knowing what he wanted and talking to him about holiday movies and my mom turning into a crazy person right before Christmas, I don't have those things anymore. I have different things that are no less important, but are different, and it's weird that they don't include him. I will reiterate. I miss my dad.
On a completely different note, I'm trying to read more. I used to read a book a week, and now, I'm struggling with a paperback for 2 weeks, and I have no motivation to really finish. First of all, I blame the books. If they were more interesting, I would read them, although, it's possible I have undiagnosed ADHD. Who knows? But, I am determined to be back in the happy place where I'm always reading a really good book.
I finished a giant chunk of my shopping today online, no muss or fuss, praise Jebus. I hate shopping with such a white-hot passion as Republicans shopping for hearts and brains like Friends of Dorothy...oops, too far. Anyway, I'm almost done, thank heavens...shopping is stupid.
I miss my dad. This is not a new emotion, but I didn't fully comprehend the idea of his not being present at Christmas until about a week ago. And what's really funny, that I tried to bring to mind last night when I finally allowed myself to cry and release this unknown tension that had no name, is that my dad really didn't like Christmas that much. He liked all of us being home, and he was a big fan of Jesus, but the forced gift-giving was a particular burr in his side: yet, another reason, why he and I were on the same level in terms of holidays.
If I had my way, we'd give each other presents throughout the year. Meaning, if I see a present that reminds me of you, I would like to buy it and send it to you rather than waiting for a date where we all go retail-crazy. Plus, I would like to be able to buy groceries at Wal-Mart in the month of December without having to be armed. We went there today for a FEW items and both of us nearly got taken out by old ladies and their shopping carts, plus befuddled shoppers looking for decorations and such. I hate you, Wal-Mart, but you make things that we enjoy. Damn you, white devils.
That grocery thing really had nothing to do with my dad, but it's yet another reason that this Christmas is a bit harder than I expected. It's like I told Smitty yesterday, "It is incredibly unfair that I can't call my dad and tell him a. that the George C. Scott version of "A Christmas Carol" is everywhere, and it's your favorite and mine, too, except for "Scrooged," and b. even though we draw names for gifts in my family, for the last three years, I had bought him Mississippi State gear, which he loved, and in fact, I believe was wearing part of when he died. Those things, knowing what he wanted and talking to him about holiday movies and my mom turning into a crazy person right before Christmas, I don't have those things anymore. I have different things that are no less important, but are different, and it's weird that they don't include him. I will reiterate. I miss my dad.
On a completely different note, I'm trying to read more. I used to read a book a week, and now, I'm struggling with a paperback for 2 weeks, and I have no motivation to really finish. First of all, I blame the books. If they were more interesting, I would read them, although, it's possible I have undiagnosed ADHD. Who knows? But, I am determined to be back in the happy place where I'm always reading a really good book.
I finished a giant chunk of my shopping today online, no muss or fuss, praise Jebus. I hate shopping with such a white-hot passion as Republicans shopping for hearts and brains like Friends of Dorothy...oops, too far. Anyway, I'm almost done, thank heavens...shopping is stupid.
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